


Underwater

by iansgallaghers



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Implied Suicide Attempt, M/M, Mental Illness, Mental Instability, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 20:57:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1525448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iansgallaghers/pseuds/iansgallaghers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The stress ball moved back and forth between his hands, complete putty and warm to the touch. It was slightly easier to focus on the ball instead of the marks, but it didn’t clear his head. Ian could still hear the screaming, the sound of an ambulance, the fucking feeling of hopelessness, the frustration that it wasn’t all over, and above all else, the look on fucking Mickey Milkovich’s face when he woke up two days later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Underwater

**Author's Note:**

> It's 4.30 in the morning. I've been battling a whirlwind of emotions lately, things I can barely even begin to explain. I don't sleep. I haven't been able to sleep properly since Christmas break and only recently have I become aware as to why I don't sleep until 4, 5, 6 in the morning. Point blank, I'm fucking afraid of falling asleep. Of what? I don't know exactly. 
> 
> Basically, my emotions + a computer = whatever the fuck this is. I usually take what I'm feeling and try to write it in words and hey, there's actually a character that this fits for. So. At least it has a happy ending? Kind of? Also I fucking had a stress ball that I've been using constantly the past few days (since I'm a compulsive skin picker and I've been trying to curb that habit in high periods of stress, yay finals!) and it FUCKING BROKE TODAY ALL OVER MY GOD DAMN FLOOR LIKE FLOUR EVERYWHERE uGH. Tl;dr - I have decided that Ian hates stress balls as much as I do. Annoying fuckers they are.
> 
> Trigger warnings for literally everything you could imagine when it comes to bipolar disorder. I like to be on the safe side. OOC, unbeta'd, things like that. y o l o.

Ian _hated_ stress balls.

It wasn’t that they were a bad concept, or so he thought. It’s just that he always found his hands playing with them, like a second habit, that they were always so damn fragile and easy to break. How many times had the balls broken in his grasp? He lost count a long time ago.

But despite his hatred, it was a habit that he couldn’t shake.  It was what lead him to where he was now, sitting in the kitchen in the moonlight, all by himself.

Three weeks. That was all that was going through his mind. It had been three weeks since he had been brought home from the hospital, four weeks since he had been admitted. It was all still such a blur to him, despite the ugly red marks on his arms that indicated otherwise. Just the thought of his attempt made him sick to his stomach.

He didn’t know if it was the constant trial and error of finding the right medicine, the actually having to _talk_ to someone about what was going on, or the final realization of that everything he had done during his mania had shattered his dreams into a million pieces. That was probably just the tip of the iceberg.

The stress ball moved back and forth between his hands, complete putty and warm to the touch. It was slightly easier to focus on the ball instead of the marks, but it didn’t clear his head. Ian could still hear the screaming, the sound of an ambulance, the fucking feeling of hopelessness, the frustration that it  wasn’t all over, and above all else, the look on fucking Mickey Milkovich’s face when he woke up two days later.

Ian put the stress ball down on the table and rested his head in his hands, his fingers gripping tightly at his hair. The guilt was becoming too much again. It was becoming harder to breathe and he could feel the tears coming out of the corner of his eyes. This feeling was supposed to be _common_ , that’s what his therapist had said. But since when had anything about Ian Gallagher had been fucking _common_?

_“Somebody help him!”_

_“What the fuck happened?”_

_“Put pressure to th-the wound, it’ll help stop the bleeding.”_

_“Who left him alone?”_

That was the question that bugged him the most. Who left him alone? Everyone had left him alone. Ian had never felt so alone before, not even before he had been undiagnosed. There was something about the feeling of emptiness, the dread in his eyes that just seemed to settle over him quickly. It was going to give him whiplash. All he wanted was to have fucking _control_ of the situation and once again, it was out of his hands.

“Breathe, Gallagher.”

Ian blinked a few times as he felt a hand on his shoulder, already knowing who it was simply based off the smell of nicotine. He clenched his hands together even harder against his hair as he felt the hand tighten.

_Remember to breathe_.

After what seemed like forever, Ian managed a long, shaky breath and released his hands and grabbed the stress ball. It was stupid how this stupid thing was actually helping him calm down. Or really, it was just Mickey’s presence because the youngest Milkovich male had that effect on him. He was the only one who could pull him out of whatever horrible mindset he was in. It might have taken a few days, maybe even a week, but it could be done.

Mickey didn’t have to ask Ian what was wrong; he knew that he’d spill it eventually. The brunette could see the haunted look in his eyes, the fact that his body was trembling slightly . . . Months later, it still pained him, because he felt so fucking helpless as he watched his lover struggle with the most intense emotional turmoil in his life.

At least he was alive. That had been Mickey’s biggest fear going headfirst into the disorder and that had been confirmed four weeks ago when Ian had slit his wrists and had been bleeding out on the bathroom floor.

The older boy tried not to think about it. He really did. The first couple of nights had been nightmare after nightmare, all resulting in Ian’s death and him being unable to do anything about it. It had gotten better after Ian had returned home and Mickey became, once again, attached to him at the hip. That still didn’t make it easy.  
  
“Ian. You need to breathe,” he said softly, placing his hands over his, effectively stopping that stupid stress ball. Mickey hated it just as much as Ian.

His dark eyes watched him carefully, noticing the way that his body trembled slightly, how his brows were pushing together, the complete helpless look in his eyes that were fixated on something stupid in the kitchen. Still, Mickey was going to take it as progress. He wasn’t lying in bed, completely unresponsive, and he wasn’t spewing off about taking up piano lessons or some shit. It was a rough middle.

“I don’t want to sleep.” Mickey’s head perked up right away, looking at Ian, his brows pushed together in frustration.  Where was this going? This was treading dangerous waters and that scared him.  
  
“I’m fucking _scared_ to sleep, Mick. When I do sleep I’m up within the next few hours, sick to my stomach, unable to breathe and I’m back to hating myself again. Sleep was supposed to be one of my safe havens and it’s turned into a nightmare.”

Mickey was on the same boat, but unlike Ian, he had learned how to manage those thoughts rather quickly. That’s what happened when you lived with Terry. Ian’s thoughts made a lot of sense. He felt it, too.

“It’s not like I see anything specific, ya know? I just know somewhere that deep down inside I can’t fucking sleep. It’s red when I close my eyes. Red. Monica. _Me._ ” His voice falters and his head turns away from Mickey, his thoughts long gone as he was lost in the memory that haunted him the mouse.

Mickey’s grip on his boyfriends hand tightened.

“You’re not fuckin’ Monica. We’re still figuring out which medicine works for you. They said it’s common.”

“I fucking know what the doctor said,” Ian snapped back. He hated hearing that even though he _knew_ that it was true.

Mickey didn’t even flinch at his tone but just licked the corner of his lip, his tell-tale sign for being nervous. He just wanted Ian to be okay, for them to find the right medicine that worked with his mind, for his boyfriend to be able to fucking sleep at night. He wanted Ian to feel okay. And yeah, he was a bit at a loss for words as to what to say about the nightmare issues, since the last thing he wanted to do was get Ian worked up.

The brunette stood up, his hand never detaching from Ian’s as he looked at him. “Come on,” he said, almost leaving no room for argument. “You’re going to break that god damn stress ball and that’ll be like the fuckin’ sixth one in two days.”

It was actually the eight in three days, not that Mickey was counting.

Ian loosened his grip around the ball and set it down on table, blindly following Mickey. He could feel himself slipping back into numbness, something that was common when his mind started to become overwhelmed. It had been happening more and more since he got home from the hospital. At this point, Ian couldn’t even blame the meds – he knew it wasn’t that. Not with how consistent it had been.

The shortest Milkovich lead him up the stairs and into Lip’s old room, which the two of them had taken up after Lip had fucked off to some girl’s house for the summer. Reluctantly, Mickey let go of Ian’s hand and pulled off his clothes down to his boxers before slipping into the bed.

“You just gonna stand there or what?”

Ian blinked a few times. “Did you not just hear what I said down-”

“Jesus Christ, Ian, just take your clothes off and shut up. We’ll fuckin’ cuddle-” Mickey shuddered, abhorring that stupid “cuddle” word. It sounded so wrong, “- or some shit. I never said shit about fallin’ asleep.”

When Ian tossed and turned all night, Mickey tossed and turned all night. When Ian didn’t sleep, Mickey didn’t sleep. It was that simple.

Ian pulled his shirt over his head and shrugged out of his jeans before crawling in bed next to his boyfriend. He curled up right beside him, resting his head against his chest, focusing on Mickey’s heartbeat. It was strangely fucking soothing.

“It’ll be a safe haven again soon,” Mickey muttered after a couple of moments, a hand playing with Ian’s hair.

If he hadn’t been so close he was sure that he wouldn’t have heard the words left his lips. Something swelled within his chest and the harmful thoughts were pushed back, even if it was only an inch. It was a start.

It didn’t take long for the two of them to figure out that Ian slept best (and more regularly) wrapped around Mickey’s arms.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I know that Mickey's the little spoon, but given Ian's mental state, I like to imagine that he'd curl up next to Mickey and Mickey would wrap his arms around him. It's a protection thing ok.


End file.
